


Terra

by raa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 6th year divergence, Action/Adventure, F/M, character tags added as characters are introduced, eventually becomes a war fic, starts as hogwarts era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:58:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6246355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raa/pseuds/raa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Halfway through sixth year, a disastrous encounter between Hermione and Draco leads to an astonishing discovery. With tensions mounting between the Order and Voldemort, each side seeks to leverage the new information, transforming the war into a dangerous race for the ultimate weapon. The depths of wizarding ignorance are revealed as Hermione and Draco race to answer the most basic of questions. What they uncover will change magic—and their lives—forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : I don't own Harry Potter, sadly! No profit is being made from this work.
> 
> Feel free to skip straight to the chapter text. Just a few more notes below for curious souls! 
> 
> My very first fic was a 140k+ word WIP monstrosity which gave evidence to both my great enthusiasm for fanfiction and my embarrassing inexperience in writing it. The fic's plot and theming disintegrated as my ideas regarding HP fanon worldbuilding and characterization evolved. Eventually I realized that I could no longer viably explore what interested me given the horrible beginnings of the fic. I took that fic down, hoping to revamp it, but eventually discovered that there was no fixing it. _Terra_ is what has emerged from its ashes after a long retooling.

“I have traveled far and wide searching for the answer to this question, but now, more than ever, I am sure that magic began here. Here, in England, where our little hills and moody moors crawl with fair folk, where our vast, forbidding forests are home to unicorns, thestrals, and centaurs. Here, in England, where Arthur once ruled with Merlin beside him. Should it be any surprise that magic began here?“

From _Notes Of a Wizard Well Traveled_  
Henry Tavern, 1354 AD  
Translator, Bathilda Bagshot, 1988 CE

 

* * *

 

 _January 23rd, 5 LVR_  
_In the Fifth Year of Our Lord_

 

He knows not to expect much, but when he materializes at the edge of the Manor's grounds he can’t help the sharp intake of cold air that shocks first his mouth then his throat then his chest. 

There is nothing but snow as far as the eye can see. Not even the wrought-iron gates remain. His heart pounds—his parents, they must be dead.

 _Another dead end_ , he thinks dully so as to drag out the moments before he spins away once more, but already his feet are moving forward. He does not think of his parents—no, he does not. For he must not. He concentrates on sinking one foot after the other into pristine snow. A man does not feel when there is work to be done. What passes underfoot—shattered glass, blackened dirt, upturned stones, his father's plants, his mother's porcelain—he grimly ignores, each forward tramp an exercise in discipline. Discipline: a conscious ordering of one's thoughts and behavior; a dismissal of the extraneous which rises, unbidden, before the mind's eye.

He measures the paces with memory. Flattened, blanketed with snow, nothing looks the same. His only point of reference is the place he appeared. But he trusts in his instincts: he pauses where the front steps should be and then, plunging onwards, crosses with conviction the front door’s threshold. He considers the imagined entryway. To his left is the men’s sitting room. Behind it, a servant’s staircase. To his right, the morning parlor.

Through the foyer into a long, dark hallway he goes, marking off with practiced hands each portrait he would pass if the Manor were still here. At the 40th set of portraits, he knows he’s reached his destination, the place where he’d hoped his search would end.

What a foolish hope. Sighing, he peels off his left glove, and runs a warm hand through his hair, which has frozen stiff. What a child he is; what a child he's been. Even thirty minutes ago, breathing in the steam of his shower, his throat tightening with anticipation. _Home_ , he'd thought. _Answers to all my questions._ What a fucking daydream. The only answers he ever gets now are for questions he didn’t want answered. His parents…

With his gloved hand, he quickly wipes away the moisture collecting in his eyes. There isn’t time for this.

He wants to leave, but he finds he can’t; his feet won’t budge. His knees are stiff, his fingers too. His chest tightens and expands at once—he can’t breathe. Someone has stretched him between two impossibly far places, flattening his lungs. There is a loosening, and he gasps for breath, thankful, lightheaded. The blood in his brain surges, electric. His head buzzes, buzzes, buzzes. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head back and forth slowly.

Then: as he breathes unevenly, blinking once, twice, he sees it—shimmering shelves full of books stretching fifty, seventy feet up. He blinks again. They’re still there.

Destruction of the magical kind is often followed by a deadness. There is no rehabilitation, no slow creep of nature. The snow melts into ripe soil, the sun shines over the damp, ready earth. But life does not return. It leaves unclaimed the poisoned land.

So there is no one there to see it, not a quick-witted fox darting between shadows or a sleek white hare hidden in snow or even a sharp-eyed falcon passing high above, when Draco Malfoy breathes out a white puff of warmth, steps forward, and disappears from sight.


	2. The Truth

"Surprise is that most cerebral of emotions. Its root is not feeling, but knowledge. Its effect, therefore, is hardest among emotions to produce. And its occurrence is, of all emotions, most dangerous to the proper function of any state-altering potion. This, however, is also a blessing in disguise. Should an antidote be not readily available, an appropriately derived surprise can counter the effects of even such potions as Felix Felicis and Amortentia."

From _Towards Bottling Ourselves_  
Ana Buccio, 1982 CE  
Translator, Helene Guerrero Cárdenas, 1983 CE

 

* * *

 

_1997 VE_

Years from now, he will remember that somehow, somehow all through that tortuous weekend—the weekend he spends waking twice each night, fumbling for his wand under his pillow only to drop it, thinking it pale, green, angry, longer than it should be, and altogether not his; retrieving it, finding it dark brown and comfortably swishy, that is, very much his own; whispering _Lumos,_ locating the fast-emptying flask of Dreamless Sleep; sitting up, pouring too-large splashes of that unnaturally cold draught down his throat; sliding back under his covers, tossing, turning, pressing first one cheek then the other against the wet of spilled potion on his pillow; retreating, finally, blessedly, into a fit of unsatisfying sleep, sleep that is gone in a second, replaced by groggy, grumpy voices he can hear through the curtains; dropping down from the top bunk, pushing past the other four boys, among them Vincent and Gregory, both of them thick, motionless, resentful; padding through the silent, judging common room; ignoring Harper's ashen face; shouldering the loss, repeating the word loss, laughing at how dumb it is that the same word can refer to schoolyard Quidditch and the fucking hole in his heart that's been growing since his father was taken— _loss_ —and still feeling guilty, hollow, like it _is_ his fault, this too, this _loss_ of his team in his absence, a loss that he still, despite everything, cares about; ducking into empty classrooms, hidden nooks, the second floor girls' bathroom Pansy hates; lingering anywhere, any place he can be alone and not have to face what he's done, what he's been doing, what he plans on doing—somehow all through that weekend, he deludes himself into thinking that _it_ hasn't really happened.

But for the time being, he can spare no effort to memory. There is only the drop in his stomach when, dashing into Runes five minutes late, already muttering apologies to Professor Babbling, he drops into his seat and sees, front and center, the empty seat. There is only the desperation of seeing Potter's white face and Weasley's angry, helpless, knitted brows as they troop into the Defence. There is only the sinking realization that despite it all he's hoped that maybe Potter, perfect, unfailing Potter would have already have fixed the problem—and that he was wrong to hope such a thing. So he sits at his seat, trying not to tremble, trying to play along as Theo snickers at the anxious Gryffindor faces, and, most importantly, trying to avoid Snape's searching gaze as the truth presses outwards within him, beating against his ribcage, bursting against his skull: Hermione Granger is missing and only he, Draco Malfoy, knows why.

 

* * *

 

Granger has been gone, Draco knows, since Saturday morning. Failing any extraordinary circumstances, if she hasn't turned up by now, she must be dead. There's nothing to do, he supposes, but grin and bear it. People die, and sometimes they die at the hands of others. Draco knows too well that his schemes have missed their target before, unleashing their deadly potential upon someone else who just happened to get in the way. Only this time, fate has not intervened so finally the sin of having killed, having _murdered_ , lies at his door.

But after class he ditches Gregory all the same to sneak off to the Room of Requirement, safety be damned. If Granger is really gone, her wand must still be in there. He hasn't been back since Saturday, proof that in his gut he's known all along her fate. As expected, he finds her thin, elegantly carved wand just a few feet from the Vanishing Cabinet. From its base, five green-tinted beige strands wind upwards about each other, tapering to meet at the tip. He handles it gingerly, remembering the anger reverberating in the wood the last time he tried to pick it up. Still, he shrinks the wand and sticks it in his front robe pocket. The wand is dangerous to keep, but he daren't leave it here.

Studiously, he avoids replaying the scene of their encounter gone horribly wrong in his head, so instead his mind fixates on Granger. He's been through this before; since last October, Katie Bell's loose loop-the-loops and her sluggish, accurate Quaffle throws have haunted his dreams.

With Granger, though, it's worse. Bell he barely knew, but Granger, he finds, he knows very well indeed. He hasn't thought about her this much directly since the summer after first year when he was still feeling the sting of being outperformed in every class by a Muggle-born. Now he discovers that he knows just how Potter's second-best friend would sniff at an incomplete answer in class, just how she might wave her hand at Slughorn, desperate not to be outshone yet again by Potter. He even knows the sound of her laugh. Now that she's dead, he knows her better than he ever knew her in life.

 

* * *

 

There's a saying his father likes:  _a wizard pure does not dilute his blood_. It has two meanings. The first is obvious. But it's the second meaning that Draco thinks of as he mixes Dreamless Sleep into whiskey. There are standards for pure-blood behavior, standards which set them apart. But Draco's met the inner circle now—the Dark Lord's finest—and if comportment matters to them, he's yet to see evidence of that. So he doesn't care. His reliance on the stuff is weakness, weakness a pure-blood should never succumb to, but all he wants is eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, and one dose of Dreamless doesn't even get him that anymore.

At dinner Tuesday night, Dumbledore, who has been gone from the castle so often a murmur of surprise runs through the hall at his presence, sees fit to give a speech on Granger's absence. A stern speech about seeking help when you need it that is directed, Draco feels, at the Slytherin table. Dumbledore can't know anything, but it unnerves Draco; if he didn't know better, he'd say Dumbledore was speaking only to him. 

Seizing on the speech as an excuse to avoid the Room of Requirement, he applies himself to schoolwork again. It's all much beyond him now. He's barely studied since before Christmas; school doesn't matter when your life's on the line. But there's the easy, yielding aspect of schoolwork, the plodding methodical way you can take problems apart to produce results in a few hours. When he does schoolwork, he needn't think of Katie Bell flying or Hermione Granger waving her hand in class. Schoolwork is simple, precise, and engaging. It's a relief, or would be, if he wasn't swimming through the week in a Dreamless-Sleep-induced haze that makes feeling anything impossible.

Without quite meaning to, he allows his little break to stretch into two weeks, three weeks. He is nauseous all the time, though sometimes Dreamless makes it better. Soon enough, he's finished the flask, and he puts in an order for two more, at 100-doses each. Just sniffing the potion in the morning makes the tremors fade. If he could, he'd feel guilty—he's neglecting his task, letting down his parents, cursing them to die. But fear has become a far away, abstract thing. It is not so pressing now that it outweighs the numbed satisfaction of being handed back a scroll from McGonagall with a tight smile, finding a loopy Oustanding scribbled across the top. If he could be afraid, he might be frightened at his emotional removal. But he can't, and he's glad, or as glad he can be. The physical discomforts caused by his reliance are worth it; Dreamless Sleep holds at bay all those pesky emotions he's had to deal with all year. He wishes this month could drag on interminably.

But three weeks to the day after Granger's disappearance, March rolls around, and the haze is zapped away. This is how it happens.

At dinner, cutting cleanly into his honeyed ham, Theo says, "Where's Weasley? Not like him to miss meals, even with Granger, well…"

Blaise, who never eats in company, says lightly, "Haven't you heard? He had some love chocolates this morning, and Potter had to drag him to Slughorn's office for a fix."

From beside Draco, Vincent's laugh is low and mean. "Good one, Blaise."

"No, for real—Slughorn was telling me"—but here Blaise cuts off to wink at Tracey, who is giggling. She's looking very pretty tonight, a glittering, dark green headband in her chestnut hair, and Draco knows that Blaise has definitely noticed because he gives her a wide grin—"hmm, ladies? Please, you don't believe me?"

The girls seated round Tracey are all lively with interest, and they whisper amongst themselves:

"—and anyone can buy a set at the Weasleys' Wizard—"

"—but Granger's been missing—"

"—have been Brown? Didn't he want to break it off—"

"Don't be silly!" snaps Pansy, and the girls fall silent, glancing at each other. "Brown's a _true romantic_. She thinks it's sweet that she's helping Weasley through ' _his great tragedy'_."

"Pansy, darling—right, as always!" Blaise redirects his wide grin at her. Clearly, he's in a theatrical mood tonight. He makes a little continuing motion with his hand. "Well, go on, then. Surely you know…"

"No," says Pansy, looking sour. It's true, Draco thinks idly, not for the first time. Pansy's been snubbed by Slughorn too. Otherwise it'd be the two of them, not Blaise, doling out the gossip over dinner together. 

Blaise looks about, savoring the paused conversations, the attentive faces turned towards him. He says, slowly, "Romilda Vane."

Talk breaks out all along the Slytherin table. The fifth-year girls who are Romilda's classmates are especially gleeful. 

"But—Potter!" cries Tracey.

"You'd think! But—"

"—she sent Potter a box of love chocolates weeks ago, and being a nasty boy, he probably threw them somewhere and forgot about them until Weasley found them this morning." Pansy throws her napkin on the table disdainfully. "We know, Blaise."

"Yes, you _are_ clever, aren't you, Pansy?"

"But," says Theo, threading his wand back and forth between his five fingers, "if it was just a love potion… it's an easy fix."

Blaise taps the table impatiently. "Let me finish," he says, and everyone stops chatting to listen again. He grins with relish—he's always lived for little scenes like this. "He _did_ fix it, but then to celebrate Weasley's birthday, he opened up some mead, the special stuff he'd been storing for special occasions, and it turns out—"

A sharp feeling gathers in Draco's head, its focal point right behind his eyes. Then it bursts—cold explodes in his eye sockets, against his ears, all around his skull. Eyes watering, he tries to blink away the pain—and the fuzzy lines which have popped up in his vision. He has to breathe in sharply to prevent himself from breaking the glass in his hand. Setting it down—too loudly—he laughs and makes a show of choking on something, to make less suspicious the tremors shooting up his legs, his arms, his spine.

"Sorry," he manages to squeeze out, even though his throat is tight, his stomach is turning, and everywhere in his head there is a pounding, painful fear. "It's just—the idea of Weasley pining after Romilda Vane"—he forces another harsh laugh up—"well, so, the special stuff—the mead?"

"You're looking pale," says Blaise. "And here I was thinking you'd been looking better recently."

"Blaise," says Pansy. "The story."

"Oh, yeah. Turns out the mead was poisoned, and Weasley took a huge gulp, too. Slughorn was so shocked he didn't know what to do. But—Draco, you listening?—Harry Potter saved the day with a bezoar! And, so, you see, thanks to The-Boy-Who-Lived, all was well once more."

Surprise, Draco recalls, thinking quickly, is not an emotion that can be dulled. It starts in the brain, from factual knowledge, and reverberates out. So here's what has happened: Dreamless Sleep has been shocked out of his system. There'll be hell to pay tonight. And, on top of that, it's Weasley, not Dumbledore, who ended up poisoned. In three weeks, he's managed to off Granger and _almost_ off Weasley, but that's not enough for the Dark Lord—oh no, not enough at all. The bench scrapes as Draco pushes to his feet abruptly.

"—really want to know is, who wants to kill the old walrus?" Seeing Draco stand unsteadily, Blaise pauses. His fingers drum on the table. "Feeling unwell, Draco?"

"It was the mead. You know." A poor joke, but Draco steps away before he can see the mocking smiles.

Behind him, he hears Blaise: "That's Draco for you. He's touchy about Potter."

 

* * *

 

This is a retreat, and all his friends are watching. Draco keeps his back very straight, fighting against his screaming limbs. When the doors of the Great Hall close behind him, he collapses against a wall, teeth gritted, and uses portrait frames as leverage to help him shuffle towards the dungeon-bound staircase.

Aside from the tittering portraits, who eye him with disdain, the corridors are quiet, which means that they are empty. In his current state, Draco couldn't be happier. In a less-used passage, he slumps to the floor and concentrates solely on breathing, knowing that the episode will pass soon enough.

But just as sensation returns to his feet, and Draco clambers up, hoping he has strength at least to return to his room before the next onset, his sleeve is taken up in a strong grip and he is dragged away from the wall

"So you strike again."

The flames of the torches wink at Draco as he is pulled past them. "I don't know what you're talking about!" he spits at Snape.

"Oh? Poison doesn't ring a bell?"

"You think that was me?"

"Don't take me for a fool." Snape pushes Draco into his office, slams the door, locking it, and shoves him into a chair. "That mead was meant for Dumbledore and you know it."

Draco regrets every moment of the scheme, but what's done is done. He swallows, raising mental precautions one by one. "I didn't know that," he says, meeting Snape's gaze with blank eyes. "Blaise, at dinner... that was the first I'd heard of it."

Snape's nostrils are flared and white, but seconds later the pressure at Draco's temple subsides. "What progress have you made on your task?" Snape demands.

Draco shivers again, wishing the numbness would return, knowing it won't. "None of your business."

"First Granger, now Weasley, all of it public and highly suspicious, and you think it's none of my business?"

"A  _Mudblood_  and a  _blood traitor._ You don't—I know you don't care—you wouldn't! And your cover—"

"You are careless, and _you_ will be discovered! Your mother—"

"—was fool to trust you!" The numbness has been zapped away, and in its place, Draco has suddenly found a well of bright, red-hot anger. 

Snape snarls, leaning forward. Draco leaps to his feet, his hand already on his wand, ready for a reckoning. But Snape stiffens and looks beyond Draco, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

"Is that right, Draco?" a mild voice says from the door. "A fool to trust Severus with what?"

Draco turns to find Dumbledore standing by the office door. It's been left ajar, it would seem, but Draco remembers Snape leveling his wand at the doorknob. It's impossible to know how long Dumbledore has been there.

"I was just passing by," Dumbledore says airily. "It's not often one hears a student yelling at Professor Snape. You must —er—forgive me my curiosity."

"I—" Draco stashes his wand in a sleeve, aware that a flush is rising with his cheeks. "My mother—she asked Professor Snape—I've been having trouble with my schoolwork."

Snape says, voice low and impassive, "Narcissa was quite concerned."

"Ah," says Dumbledore, "I ask, then, for a little more patience on your part, Draco. I assure you that Severus holds my utmost confidence as a teacher."

Draco forces himself to nod. He keeps his focus on the ground to avoid looking into those bright blue eyes again.

"But if you'll kindly discuss with your Head of House later…" Dumbledore gestures towards the door. When Draco hesitates, Dumbledore adds, "I'm afraid it's a matter of some importance."

Draco's eyes drift to Snape, who nods curtly—a sharp dismissal.

The  _matter of some importance_ must be related to Weasley. Draco's itching to know what it is, but he makes his way at a usual pace out of the office and knows better than to try and listen at the door.

In his room, overtaken by another shock, it is all he can do to shed his robes, fling them in the direction of his desk, and pull himself up the ladder into his bed. He lies there, awake, riding out the needling pain that crops up in his joints every few minutes. At some point, blessedly, he drifts off. His last thought is that the shock has been good for something after all; he hasn't found it this easy to sleep without an aid in ages.

But he wakes again. He takes stock of his limbs: sore but not actively in pain. If overdosing and shock-countering Dreamless is anything like taking poison, he'll suffer other aftershocks yet. 

Draco sits up in his bed. A thought has just occurred to him, a vitally important thought. Granger is already dead, but Weasley is not, and now Draco finds that he has to see Weasley to be sure. _A matter of some importance._ Dumbledore's words. What if not one but both of Potter's two best friends are dead, both at Draco's hands? Helpless, hysterical laughter grasps at Draco as he leaps to the floor and rushes out of the Slytherin quarters. He has just enough presence of mind to Disillusion himself before he starts running down the darkened hall. He takes the stairs three at a time and rushes headlong towards the double doors of the Hospital Wing. When they come in sight, he flings a spell at them.

They fly open, but as he comes to the threshold, he stops short. On the far end of the room, he has glimpsed something he knows all too well by now. Even Dreamless Sleep can't prevent a conscious mind from fixating when sleep cannot be induced. So Draco knows too well that the dark brown, curly hair he's spotted across the Hospital Wing can mean only one thing: Hermione Granger is alive.


	3. What Must be Hidden

"Child, we wizards are the children of gods. Our magic is proof of this. But heed my warnings, for a poverty of imagination accompanies our great gift. Like our gods before us, we are consumed— _defined_ —by our power. Now consider  _das Muggels_. Not for them the idle helplessness of the wizard robbed of his wand, no! Poorly equipped as they are, they demonstrate true ingenuity, true creativity! They must invent their own identities, you see, and so they do! Oh, child, remember this: be not too proud to learn from our lesser cousins, who, after all, the gods saw fit to allow their freedom."

  
_Excerpt, "Wisdom & Teachings", a book written by Friedrich von Essen for his son, dated 338 CE_  
From  _Collected Letters of the von Essens_ , 1859 CE  
Translator unknown, 1877 CE

* * *

 

Draco Malfoy is a strange boy. Just a few weeks ago, Hermione was driven nearly spare by Harry's obsession with him. Now she finds that she, too, can think of little else.

What, for example, should she make of receiving her wand with the morning post on this day, a week after her return to Hogwarts? What should she make of the elegant gold-rimmed box, the shiny, black ribbons, the nearly unintelligible, spiky, left-leaning script in the attached note which reads, " _Best wishes for your recovery_ "? What to make of the spat that he's incited near the Great Hall's doors, and the way he blinks, blank and catlike, when they make eye contact over Crabbe's shoulder, his eyes flickering down to the wand lying across her empty plate?

But these are only the latest in a series of strange incidents that have involved Draco Malfoy. Lately, ever since she returned, whenever Hermione has tried to talk about Draco Malfoy and how he is related to, well, _before_ , she's found herself strangely unable to remember what she was just about to say. 

Since Harry and Ron have taken to tailing her, hands well placed to draw their wands at any moment, all day she is dogged by the feeling of a thought hovering just beyond the reach of her conscious grasp. At night, when she finishes studying and bids them goodnight, the moment they're out of sight she remembers what she has meant to tell them all along. But if she turns, skips down the stairs, and calls their names, suddenly the thought flees. If she writes the important parts down, she finds that without knowing it she has written in symbols unlike any she's ever seen before. When she tries to show the odd little symbols to others, she discovers that she has left the scroll tucked in a book by her bed.

Sometimes, if she really forces the matter, she can almost force her tongue to speak, but then she is overwhelmed with a conviction that great care is required when one knows certain things, for some knowledge must be hidden. When this happens, she must get a blank look on her face, because she has scared, in turn, Harry, McGonagall, Ginny, and Ron. The last time this happens, with Ron, he shakes her until she comes to herself, then hugs her tightly when she asks him what's wrong. When she says she's alright, he breathes out, warmth emanating from his person. He gives her a peck on the cheek. "Never again," he says.

 _Never again_ , Hermione decides after that. She doesn't want to frighten her friends, who are frightened enough as is, so she's stopped trying.

But she remembers.

 

* * *

 

McGonagall is thin-lipped as Hermione explains the morning post, but she smiles when she sees Hermione's gloved hands. "Very good, Granger," she says, drawing her wand out from her sleeve with forefinger and thumb. "You never know if a curse might activate on touch." A utilitarian pair of gloves appears on her hands, and she takes the wand from Hermione. 

There's a little space, a throb, as Hermione surrenders her wand, and she can't help saying, "Do you think I'll get it back soon?"

"Soon enough," says McGonagall. "Do you find your new wand satisfactory?"

The truth is that she doesn't. It's acacia, twelve and 3/8 inches, and flexible, with a sphinx hair core. It responds well enough; at the shop in Paris (Ollivander is still missing), they clapped when she finally found it. But she misses her old wand, and, sometimes, she thinks the wand knows this. It's not a new wand, either; no one makes wands with sphinx hair anymore. Just thinking on it makes Hermione wary; she doesn't know her own wand's history. But the facts are these: no other wand responded as this one did and still does, filling her chest and arms with bubbling confidence, but delivering a shock to her brain, a cold, bright shock that makes everything crisp and vivid. To McGonagall, she says, "Yes, I think so."

"Good," her professor says. "You owe me one more essay and a practical demonstration before you're caught up in Transfiguration. Will tomorrow evening do?"

A month ago, nothing would have made Hermione happier. Now though… Granted, it's easy enough to write another essay. What's not easy these days is peeling away from Harry and Ron to do a little research. And the library, which has never failed Hermione before, has not turned up a single useful word this past week. Even second year, small mentions of petrifications and other horrors imparted upon Hogwarts then and again since its founding would turn up in ancient books smelling of mildew. But nothing, it seems, in all the library can explain the things Hermione knows, the things she would relegate to dreamland—would, if there wasn't a month she can't remember, if her wand hadn't been missing when she came to, if Draco Malfoy hadn't just returned her wand, if she were able to utter a single word about what she thinks has happened.

"And you are recovering well?"

Hermione blinks. "Yes, Professor."

"You know that… I am your Head of House, Granger. If you should have any difficulties, I am here to help you take care of it. You do know that?"

There's something tight in Hermione's throat. She nods, slowly. She does know that. But if she can't speak of what she needs, McGonagall can't help her.

 

* * *

 

The irony of it all is this: now that Draco Malfoy occupies most of Hermione's waking hours, Harry seems to have forgotten all about him. If Harry wanted to track Malfoy about the castle, Hermione would gladly help him. But Harry, for once, is all homework and action. When he's not planning a new ambush on Slughorn, he reads feverishly, books about magical places in England, books about old and dark magic, books about the Founders. He is hoping to find something useful for Dumbledore in the Horcrux hunt.

So Hermione watches Malfoy alone—when she can. He's pale, very pale, and, she thinks, definitely ill. She has few memories of him from these past few months; he's made himself scarce, indeed. But then again,  _before_ , she had little interest in Malfoy. Of course she remembers seeing him shrug off Snape's protective hand at Slughorn's party, all sharp edges in his black dress robes, dark rings beneath oddly glittering eyes. And she remembers too, how prominent those rings were as his eyes opened wide that last moment before—

Hermione has to shake her head whenever she gets to this thought, to shake that feeling of needing to hide away; normally, she focuses again on Malfoy, her one real tie to the mystery. Often, he looks as if he's about to be ill. In class, he sometimes grips the edge of his desk while staring straight ahead. She's caught him sliding against a wall, holding tightly to a wall sconce to remain upright. Whatever's going on, and she's pretty sure most of the Slytherins know  _something_  is going on, Snape either doesn't know it or is pretending not to. The other Slytherins help Malfoy pretend he's not sick when he's in Defence. In other classes, he slouches down besides Goyle, silent and white-faced, but in Defence, he talks loudly, and the Slytherins crowd around him, joking and laughing and passing notes, seemingly oblivious to Snape's increasingly sour expression.

Whatever it is, Malfoy is falling apart, and nobody besides his Slytherin classmates seems to be aware of it. She wants to tell someone, anyone, but she's afraid they'll start asking her why she's watching him. Then they'll discover the horrible, horrible truth: she hasn't lost her memory, at least, not completely. Malfoy is part of her last true memory before her missing month. But she can't talk about it.

If it's a charm or a curse, she doesn't know how it's been performed. And how can such a thing be true? Why would anyone choose this form of exquisite torture instead of merely Obliviating her? Surely, surely, this can't be Malfoy's work. Malfoy's not stupid, she knows that. He'd choose the safest, easiest spellwork to keep his own secrets, and surely Obliviation is both easier that whatever rare curse this is.

So the question remains: why can't she talk about Malfoy, and why do his hands tremble when they are not shoved into his pockets?

 

* * *

 

Today, Hermione is not alone in her observation. Malfoy is watching her, she realizes, and not surreptitiously, the way he has been watching her these past few days. As they file into Vector's sun-kissed lecture hall after lunch, he knocks into her, a sharp elbow wedging between her shoulder blades.

"Watch it, Granger," he says, loudly. "Hit your head too hard and forgotten how to walk?"

There are sniggers; Cho wasn't Marietta's only close friend. The Ravenclaws who constitute most of their class have never quite forgiven Hermione for that. Not that Hermione cares.

Judging from the open laughter from Malfoy's Slytherin friends, they definitely don't know Hermione's secret. It must seem like the customary opportunistic jab to them. But even if Malfoy didn't swing round to watch her face intently, Hermione would know this is something more. Harry is Malfoy's usual target; over the years, he's left Hermione alone whenever she hasn't been with Ron and Harry. So this is a test. Very well.

Hermione shrugs. "Concerned, are we?" Instead of heading to the front of the classroom, she plops down in Malfoy's customary seat.

He slides into place beside her. "Why, Granger, if I'd known a good rap on that skull of yours was all we needed to make you leave school for a month…

Hermione lifts a careful hand to her head, and begins massaging a spot above her right ear. The trick is to feed him what he thinks he already knows. So she says, still rubbing that spot, looking out the corner of her eye at Malfoy, "How did you know I hit my head?

To his credit, he doesn't even blink. But he does lower his voice; this is a private conversation now. "Conjecture. You lost your memory, didn't you?"

"Madam Pomfrey says memory loss is fairly common after head injuries." She likes how light her voice sounds, and how the innocent tone contrasts with her words.

Malfoy snaps his head towards the boards as Vector emerges from her office, giving Hermione a good look at his patrician nose and his angular jaw line. 

Hermione sniffs as she presses her fingers against her head. "Oh," she says, still in that light, commonplace voice, "it still hurts when I press it!"

"So you really did hit your head," he says quietly, still facing forward. "And you don't remember a thing."

With Vector's quick eyes roving about the classroom, Malfoy can't try anything. This is her chance. She leans in. Still more quietly, she says, "Oh, but I do, Malfoy." She looks up quickly, meeting his shocked eyes. "I know that I didn't hit my head. And I remember that you were there. Thank you for my wand, by the way."

Malfoy inhales sharply, four fingers pressed against the table, white from tension, and his thumb curling underneath the edge to support him. It takes a moment for Hermione to realize what she's said, what she's been able to say. So she _can_ say these things, but only to Malfoy! If this isn't proof that Malfoy's cursed her, she doesn't know what is. She must make some noise of realization as Vector laughs—a happy, delighted sound—and says, "Yes, Granger! You see why this is a truly groundbreaking result!"

Hermione has no appetite for Arithmancy today. She taps the edge of her quill on her lips, as if lost in thought, and allows Vector to continue her lecture.

Malfoy pulls a scroll out from his front robe pocket, unfurls it, and snaps his fingers. With the quill that appears there, he scribbles quickly: _So why didn't you cry to Dumbledore?_

This is a dangerous game Hermione is playing, but she can't resist. _Poor sport. We Gryffindors don't cheat,_ she writes on her own scroll. _That was some curse, though. What's it called?_

But Malfoy only snorts when he gets to the end of what she's written. _Don't know what you're talking about._

_Oh?_

_You're the one who—_ Malfoy stops abruptly and starts scratching out everything he's written on his scroll. Then, with a deliberate flick, he tips the ink pot over so that it spills over her scroll, too. 

"Shit!" he says in the loud voice which he uses to start scenes. "Sorry, Professor Vector. I'll get this cleaned up." Then he leans over the table, blocking her view of Vector and the floating demonstration. Hermione sits very still, refusing to acknowledge the invasion of her space as he siphons the ink away. 

"And now I know. You sure that was wise?" he whispers as he settles back into his seat. He's left large splotches on her scroll which render her notes illegible. 

Hermione can feel her lip curling. "Don't try that, Malfoy. You don't scare me. Besides, I can turn you in anytime."

He's cleaning off his robes now, but he glances at her, raising one eyebrow. "Then why haven't you? Forgive me,"—with these words, his voice turns honeyed, malicious—"but I find myself… incredulous."

She waves a hand, airily. "Don't worry about it, Malfoy," she says, in a clear, carrying voice of her own. Two can play at this game. "I forgive you."

 

* * *

 

If going head to head with Malfoy always feels like this, Hermione supposes she can't blame Harry and Ron for carrying about their rivalry for years. She feels nervous and satisfied, all at once. Malfoy walks behind her on the way to Charms, and chooses to sit behind her, too. She can feel his eyes on her person, scanning up and down her spine. Hermione forces herself not to bend over the aisle and confide in Ron. He'd love every detail of the encounter; he's always been her best, most supportive audience. But she knows that even trying to talk about it is trouble, and Ron's never been a quiet whisperer. With Malfoy sitting behind them…. Well. Better to concentrate on Neville's slow, methodical wandwork. Still, she can't shake any of the feelings: the triumph, the nervousness, and the strange, prickling sensation which makes her sure she is being watched.

All through dinner—roast duck and black pudding and a side of blackened, honeyed carrots—she feels jumpy. She can feel the weight of his suspicious gaze upon her, though she can't turn and check if he's really looking. It's with some relief that she retires to the library alone after dinner; Quidditch practice keeps Ron and Harry from accompanying her. She needs to be alone.

The Restricted Section, which prefects are allowed, is Hermione's favorite part of the library. Through the west-facing windows, she can catch the last, gasping orange breaths of the sun as it sinks behind the lake. The torches light automatically in the main areas of the library, but here they must be lit be hand—by magic, that is. Hermione prefers to sit with a small light at her desk. It feels cozy. When she finishes McGonagall's essay, she stretches out, sighing. Far away from Harry and Ron, she can finally think about Malfoy in peace.

Malfoy's denial means nothing to her. Spells of secrecy often allow exceptions for the caster, so if she can talk to Malfoy about what's passed, he must be the culprit. Spells of secrecy… that's something she hasn't looked at yet. Hermione shoves her papers away, grabs her wand, and wanders down the shelves, brushing her hands against the leathery spines. Even though the air is spelled dry in the Restricted Section, the slightly sweet, almond smell of old parchment lingers.

A cool hand grasps her wrist and swings her about. Hermione begins the movement for a silent disarming spell, her eyes snapping up to meet her aggressor's.

 _"Legilimens!_ " hisses Malfoy.

Her own disarming spell is interrupted halfway, and he's suddenly in her head, pilfering for that one memory. There's no way to keep him from it. Before she knows it, he's pulled her inexorably into the past.

 

* * *

 

 

White-faced and trembling, he's pushed up the long arms of his robes and rolled back his sleeves. He holds the bunched cloth there, at the crook of his elbow with his free right hand—Malfoy is left-handed but she's never noticed before. The Mark sits above his wrist, blank ink upon impossibly pale skin.

For a long moment, they face each other, wands drawn.

Then he speaks, his voice tight but even. "There. Satisfied?"

That's one way to put it. She supposes that from the moment she spotted him hurrying down the 7th floor hallway when everyone else was already headed towards the Quidditch pitch, the possibility had lurked in the back of her mind. Perhaps from even before that: a smidge of suspicion at Borgin and Burkes, a flicker of faith in Harry when he starts recounting his theories yet again.

But still she gazes at it—in disbelief. He scowls at her, his face scrunched up in displeasure. His hand is shaking, but he's pressed his lips together, as if in determination. She is determined not to strike first, but she prepares herself for the oncoming confrontation.

Still, somewhere in her heart of hearts, she can't believe it's come to this. This is Malfoy, not his father or his terrifying aunt, those very real enemies they faced down at the Ministry last year. This is Malfoy, who was scared shitless just like the rest of them first year about the dead unicorn in the forest; Malfoy, who complained loudly about Lockhart second year; Malfoy, who looked as if he was about to puke when Harry turned up in front of the maze, clinging to a dead Cedric Diggory. She and Malfoy, they've never been friendly, but she's seen him kicking back with his friends plenty of times.

And now, this. If only, she thinks angrily, if only she could have some real proof, real historical proof that pure-bloods are just like everyone else, all of them descended from Muggles. Then she could fight the rhetoric point for point, prevent this generation from making the mistakes of the ones before it. It is a hopeless hope; logic, she knows, does not drive bigotry; but she can't help it.

Suddenly, a thousand little needles are jabbing into her. Whatever Malfoy's hit her with, it's like nothing Hermione has ever felt. Her chest has stretched beyond imagining, and she can't breathe, for fear her lungs will burst. Her head is buzzing and light, like she's lost all the knowledge she's gained since first year.

When the pain stops, Hermione opens her eyes to find Malfoy backed up against a column of junk, his wand still trained on her, the tip of it jumping up and down unsteadily as his arm trembles. His sunken eyes are wide and wary, flitting up and down her person. 

"What's going on, Granger?"

"What was that?" she demands in return. Malfoy, as far as she can remember, didn't even flick his wand. How is that possible, given the strength of what she just felt? "What did you do!"

"I—I didn't do this," he says, but his voice is high, and he sounds desperate, unsure. He seems not to be looking at her at all; his eyes are aimed at her stomach, but they aren't focused.

Hermione glances down at herself, expecting a wound that she'll begin to feel any moment now, though how Malfoy managed to hit her in the stomach when his wand was aimed at her head, she doesn't know. 

But there is nothing… except… there are lines on her stomach, and now she looks closely, she sees that it's a pattern. The same pattern as the tiles on the floor. In fact, her body is shimmering and ephemeral, like that of a ghost. Hermione shifts her grip on her wand, but an odd, painful feeling flashes up her wrist, and the wand clatters to the floor, falling right through her fingers. Malfoy and the Room of Requirement are dimming, and a strong smell of fresh air and pine hits her. It's cold, very cold, and there is heavy white coming down, landing on her, little pinpricks of wet on her arm and face.

"Snow," she says. She can't help saying it. "Malfoy, what is—"

But then he is gone, and—everything goes black.

 

* * *

 

Hermione comes back to herself. She understands what is happening. This is not real—it is only a memory. And suddenly she can feel Malfoy in her head too. She pushes at him, pushing him out. This cannot be shared; it must be hidden; she will hide it.

"Don't touch me!" she hisses. Malfoy, she can see, has a hand gripped to his chest, as if still feeling the aftermath of the pain he caused her. The row of books behind his head has fallen sideways; he's knocked the bookend to the ground. 

Hermione feels violated, even though she knows he's gained nothing. The thing about Legilimency is that even by going into someone's head, you can't steal their thoughts; you see only what has happened, and, if you're lucky, you pick up some emotional resonance. If she retaliates by riffing through _his_ memories, she's still unlikely to learn what she needs to know.

She trains her wand upon him. "What did you do to me! Tell me!"

But Malfoy is shaking his head. "What was that?"

" _You_ cursed me! Now tell me what it was!"

" _I must hide it. I will hide it_. Emotions, thoughts—they don't come through like that. But I heard those words, loud and clear. So… what's to hide? What's more important than telling Dumbledore what you know about me?"

"Live and let live, Malfoy," she retorts. "I didn't turn you in. Now leave me alone." 

 

 

* * *

That night, she dreams. At first, she is in darkness. Good, she can hide here.

But why must she hide?

As if in response, the darkness around her, so thick and oppressive, begins to thin. The dark gives way, a curtain of black mist being blown about, dissolving. About her, woodsmoke rises, and with it the aroma of pine needles. On the tip of her nose, a snowflake is melting, and the water that drips down is surprisingly warm. 

When her eyes have adjusted to the blue-white clarity all around, she realizes that she is standing at the edge of a large expanse of golden wheat, stretching out beyond the horizon. Snow lies lightly on the tips of the swaying heads, nestling between kernels. She stands in a small clearing, a glowing pile of messy sticks casting orange light upon the only other feature: a very clean-looking stone well. Her mouth, she notices with a jolt, is slowly repeating words: "Down the well. My way back. A sign—I await a sign."

The words fit, somehow; it seems to her that if she says them enough times, they will come true. When her throat is too parched to continue, she simply walks to the well and peers down, waiting. For what seems an eternity, she waits. Then: a light flashes somewhere deep, deep down, showing smooth, white, polished marble, and an endless depth. This must be the sign. 

She clambers over the edge of the well and hangs there for a second, feeling the weight of her person in her arms. Moss grows along the grout, but the air is clean and fresh, and the soft gurgle of running water echoes up from below. She lets go.

Then she is falling, falling, condensation on her nose, her feet, her legs. It is very cold. The water beads into large droplets which traverse up her arms as the air swooshes past. As she hits the water, which gives away into nothing, nothing at all, her last thought is:  _So this is how it works. It really is that simple. This is dangerous. I must hide it. I will hide it._


	4. Magic Logic

"Nothing like country air to bring the bloom back into a girl's cheeks. For Ava's sake, I am all gladness for she is a sweet girl—but what Eliza and Charles would do without me, I cannot imagine—and Eliza was so sure even a short absence would spell ruin. Well, it has been anything but, I assure you! The young wizards have all flocked to Kent in pursuit—and the Nott boy among them. He's young, but steady enough, and we have hopes—Eliza is such a poor mother—alas, that we ever expected more of a half-blood—but she has at least ensured that Ava is sensible to all the advantages of the match. It is not yet fixed, but no doubt we will flurry to town within the fortnight with that very goal in mind. Oh, but I long for London! Charles is hosting some old friends from ol' Hoggy here, and one of them—The Lady Florence Hay, she calls herself—no doubt she and her brother fancy themselves important on account of their father being some Muggle lord, as if that signifies!—well, Regina, I tell you, you can smell the New Blood from a mile away! She can't have learned much at Warty, though that's no surprise—Caractus Dumbledore's new-fangled ways have gone to her head. Always during the daily technicals, Lady Florence—oh yes, she insists! it must be Lady Florence—has questions: but why, but how? As if magic can be gleaned from some rules in a book! And to think that the other day I heard her remarking to her brother upon meeting poor, dear Irma Weasley that manners must be bred, not learned! If I'm not mistaken, she much prefers the mud to us—yes, she still lives among them, and plans to marry one too! No commoners for her, she says, as if some silly Muggle title matters more than the purity of one's blood! The nerve of these Muggle-borns! Ah Regina, if only you were here to see that woman for yourself. But your twins keep you well occupied, I'm sure. I demand a full recounting in your next letter. Give Gregory my love, won't you, and write soon, else I will die of boredom—before they've even fetched our brooms!"

 _Excerpt, Letter from Sarah Prewett to her cousin-in-law Regina Goyle_ , 1817 CE  
Collection: _The Prewett Family_ , The British Museum's Wizarding Society Archive

* * *

 

 

You'd never guess it, but sometime in the last six years, Granger's acquired a love of neatness. 

House-eleves don't touch clothes, of course, so most students endure the grass and ink and gravy stains on their robes with sanguinity. They can fix their robes with magic—only, rubbing the stains out with potions that take half a day to brew isn't something they've time for right now. But Granger—no stains on her. She wears her robes pressed, the way a Slytherin might. Her shirts are a pristine white, her sleeves are crisp, her skirts are neatly pleated. And the scrolls she hands up to Vector are tightly bound with black ribbon and beautifully addressed, all elegant flourishes that not even Narcissa could criticize.

This notwithstanding, her handwriting's atrocious when she's in a hurry. Draco knows, because he's been peering over Granger's shoulders during Arithmancy. Here's a reminder of the old Granger, the one who used to rush about, books stacked up to her chin, bag splitting at the seams. Not content with scribbling every word down furiously, as if the objective of class is, besides answering every question, dutifully obtaining a verbatim record of the professor's words, frequently she punctures the parchment in her haste to draw arrows which crisscross this way and that, right over the words she's just written. And if there's a moment to spare, say, while other students hesitantly answer questions, Granger scrawls out a mix of symbols and solitary lowercase letters in the margins, circles these groupings, and satisfies her violent interest in Arithmancy with little stabs. This parchment, Phyllis & Sons' finest, gives way with a stiff, foreboding sound that Draco is quite familiar with by now. From the lower periphery of his right eye, he's learned that no one can make Arithmancy as confusing—or intriguing—Granger can.

Why she wants to share his customary table is even more confusing—and intriguing. Last week, moments after fighting off his best, strongest mental attack, her face the very picture of disdain, she'd said: _Now leave me alone._ Well, if she'd just sit in the first row by herself—her custom all these years—he'd have no problems _leaving her alone_. After all, now that he knows that she's not dead and that he didn't kill her and she's not any worse for wear and she hasn't given him away and she's not planning to… there isn't any reason to think about her. Really, he has more important things to think about. Much more important things.

But ever since he was in Granger's head four days ago, Draco's had this feeling that Granger holds the answer to his problem. She's found a way out the castle, after all, and most likely a way in, too. More importantly: she's good at Arithmancy. All his breakthroughs with the cabinet, however slight, have come from arithmancical insight. And while he's always liked Arithmancy, Granger clearly loves it. That much can come through in memory. Riffling about in her head while searching for the right memory last week, he glanced through dozens of variants of the same scene: Granger hunched over over a long, unfurled scroll of numbers in the candlelight, circling certain numbers over and over again while brushing the edge of her quill against her mouth. Even in passing, he could feel the satisfaction coming off her, like she'd discovered something deep and satisfying about the universe, something that answered all his questions.

Really, it's just that. He can't get that feeling out of his head. Because that's what he needs right now: an answer to all his questions.

 

* * *

 

Here's a question Draco wants answered: what is Granger hiding?

Every time he sneaks into the Room of Requirement, his chest seizes up for fear that today will be the day. Dumbledore will be standing in front of that godawful cabinet, smiling sunnily as if he just happened to be taking a stroll through the Room of Hidden Things. Snape will be there too, with some calculated rescue in mind, and maybe he'll have some trick up his sleeve to take on Dumbledore. But even so, even if Dumbledore miraculously dies as planned, Draco will be dragged in front of the Dark Lord and his parents will be there and the Dark Lord will raise his wand and—but there's no use thinking on it. It hasn't happened yet. So Dumbledore can't know—not yet, at least.

From the way Potter and Weasley trail Granger, it's clear she's not confided in them either. Otherwise, given Granger's conviction that Draco has cursed her, they'd stop shooting suspicious looks at any Slytherin who walks within a half-meter of her and start focusing on Draco. But the thing is, Draco doesn't think he _has_ cursed Granger. Legilimency's a twofold thing. You get a hint of your subject's emotions, but you yourself experience the subject's memories without being forcibly placed in their shoes; you can watch what's happening objectively, dispassionately, the way you might observe a portrait. So he got a good look at himself from an outside perspective four days ago, and now he can discard all his wild theories and dreams. No accidental magic, no half-finished spells—whatever hit Granger, he's not responsible.

And whatever she's hiding, it's important enough that she can't even tell people how or why she disappeared.

So maybe he lied. Maybe he does think about Granger even when he's not in Arithmancy, even when he isn't trying to figure out why she loves Arithmancy so. Because it doesn't jibe. It's all a bloody mystery: how she fucking Disapparated, and unwillingly at that, from the castle; what the undecipherable symbols in her notes are; why she hasn't reported Draco when she knows he's a Death Eater; why she hasn't confided in her suffocatingly close best friends; how she became a damn good Occlumens; just when she became such good friends with Susan Bones and Hannah Abbot, who are even this moment shoving a witch mag under her nose and asked her to demonstrate a hair spell for them; and why—

"Pansy's in a mood," Theo whispers, dumping his books on the table. "Try not to stare at Granger, won't you?"

"What?"

"You heard me. Pansy."

Draco grimaces, waves a hand. Fine. "So what happened? This morning Pans was still—"

"Yeah, until Trelawney prophesied some drivel for Tracey and—"

"Fuck—no, don't." Draco can see the whole scene in his head already: Daphne egging Trelawney on with smiles and innocent questions; Tracey squirming in embarrassment; Pansy examining her nails with practiced, furious disinterest; Theo smirking in a corner; Gregory, next to him, gulping down tea to keep the smell of incense away. "Why you're still taking that class—"

"Better than Care of Magical Creatures…" Theo pauses and leans back, a sign that he's not finished speaking. He's threading his wand between fingers, too—another sign: boredom. "Or Muggle Studies."

Draco catches his eye and smirks. "Fair enough."

"That's better. Now just don't start staring at her again."

"Come on, you know it's—"

"—not like that? Yeah, I do." More wand threading. "But does Pansy?"

You never know how deep the game is when it's Theo you're playing. What has he seen? What has Pansy said? What else does he know? Fuck if Draco knows; it'd take a better Legilimens than even Aunt Bella to find out. 

Shrugging, Draco mutters, "Five Galleons Snape'll make Potter do demonstrations today."

"Can't be. It'll be Longbottom. Snape knows Potter'd breeze by the shit."

"Potter's been distracted…" Draco knows better than to fill in why: that'd only lead the conversation back to Granger.

Theo laughs. "You're on."

 

 

* * *

 

Evening finds Draco five Galleons richer, and headed towards Snape's dungeon office for the first time since their last horrendous interview. A tick mark in the corner of the essay unceremoniously dropped on his table during Defence this morning means only one thing: critical Death Eater business. No choice but to go.

Snape takes no notice of Draco. He's got the torches at full power, which means he's grading. He marks off the scrolls with a sneer on his face. There's nothing to do but watch for the grades as the scrolls stack up. Two 'Exceeds Expectations', a handful of 'Acceptable's, and all the rest 'Poor's and 'Dreadful's. Typical.

When he's finished, Snape neatly flicks his wand. The pile of scrolls fly into an empty spot next to some musty jars, and the torches dim. Snape's office is once again the murky, enclosed space he prefers.

He says, sitting back, face overhung with shadow: "Detention."

"For what?"

"Weasley. That ring a bell?"

"No, I—" Draco tries for a laugh. "Last time you mentioned this, you accused me of killing Granger, too!"

A muscle ticks in Snape's jaw. "One detention, I said. Not two."

"Changed your mind, have you?"

"The circumstances—"

"Whatever. Detention. Fine. What's the—"

"I warn you, Draco, continue to speak this way to me and I will—"

"I apologize, Professor."

Snape sits very still behind his desk, the torches casting light in shifting patterns across his desk. "Very well," he says after a long pause. "Detention, next Tuesday. Meet me here just before midnight. Dismissed."

Draco stands. Say this for Snape: he's never once used the code for anything that wasn't urgent before. Somehow, he can't quite believe that Snape has decided to use it for scheduling a detention. "So the—"

Snape makes a sound of exasperation. He gestures at the seat. "If you must talk," he says, "then sit."

Draco ducks down into the seat. "The—the message. I thought—"

"Yes," say Snape. "You thought correctly. We're wanted. And since you insist on performing your task without assistance, you will report to the Dark Lord directly."

Something cold settles in just below the nape of Draco's neck. He has to fight his shoulders back down, back into a relaxed position. "Is it a full meeting?"

Snape's smile is contemptuous. "What do you think?"

 

* * *

 

 

He's made barely any progress since Christmas break, the last time he met with the Dark Lord. Somehow, he doesn't think the Dark Lord will appreciate what he has to say: _sorry, my lord, I thought I had murdered someone._

Once, he prided himself on being even-tempered, even-keeled. Not anymore. Ever since his father was taken, every month, every day, every hour seems to bring a shift. Beset with anxiety by morning, a _shock_ will wash him clean of all feeling, but by lunch, anger will have taken root—only to be replaced with fear and desperation at dinner. And the Dreamless withdrawal can't even be blamed on Granger's disappearance. Because even before he ran into her in the Room of Hidden Things, he'd been dependent, taking a sip now and again to avoid the ups and downs. The run-in with Granger and its disastrous outcome was just an excuse to throw away even the guise of independence.

So here he is, mid-March, three months since he last saw the Dark Lord, anxious, trembling, prone to episodes, no farther than he was before with the cabinet. Things he sends through are shredded on transport. And the cabinet is itself a fixation he doesn't much understand: why's he decided to do this? What's the use of transporting Death Eaters into Hogwarts? He's still the one who will have to kill Dumbledore, which everyone knows he can't. Even the Dark Lord didn't defeat Dumbledore last year at the Ministry. He supposes that it's about effort: if he has something physical, something real to show for his efforts, maybe the Dark Lord will accept that paltry offering when all's been weighed and tallied. And there was that look, that surprised but fiercely approving look on the Dark Lord's face, when Draco let the Dark Lord skim his mind for an impression of the cabinet, that brief discussion with Borgin, and the countless evenings spent in the Room of Hidden Things.

Monday morning, he slips into Runes late, thinking how useless his weekend was: episodes in the mornings followed by hours upon hours of sitting dully in front of the cabinet for hours, wishing he knew what to do, his mind conjuring worst-case scenarios. In Defence, the other Slytherin boys are lively, as they normally are—Snape's their favorite after all. Draco can barely make an effort to engage. So the shock, when it hits him, as it does most mornings, is a sort of blessed relief, painful but absorbing. Before he knows it, Daphne is on one side of him, Theo on the other, each with a hand on one of his elbows. They drag him towards Arithmancy, muttering to each other in low voices across his face.

"—front of Snape, too. You'd think he'd at least _try_ to pretend he's not getting _the shocks_."

"Shut it, Daph. You don't know what it's like."

"Oh, and you do?"

"I know enough. If you think you know better…" Theo's fingers loosen on Draco, and he is pushed towards Daphne.

Daphne shoves Draco back towards Theo. "Come on, Theo. You know I can't do this alone."

"Where's Millicent? She can help you—"

"Theo, please. Millie went ahead—some question she has for Vector. And I'm sorry, all right? I didn't know."

Draco's right arm again is taken again with an iron grip. "Whatever, let's just get him into his seat."

"You'll have to sit with him. He's worse than he was on Friday. Did you watch him? Did he have any Dreamless?"

"Hasn't touched the stuff. At least that I've seen. And I can't, you know in Arithmancy he always sits with Grang—"

"Fuck, I forgot. Circe, I don't understand what he's doing—doesn't he realize—"

They stagger through the doorway, an ungainly threesome trying to fit through all at once. Draco is guided towards his table and pushed downards. He sags against the chair in relief. The effort of standing, of moving his legs, is too much to bear for more than a few minutes. A quill is placed into his loose hand, a scroll under the weight of his other arm. 

Theo leans in. "Shoulders back," he hisses. "You're a _pure-blood._ This'll be the worst shock of the day, you know it. Just sit straight and—"

"Hello, Nott." The new voice is measured and even. "Something wrong?"

"Mind your own business, Mudblood."

"I am. You're in my seat."

"It wasn't your seat until you—"

"Alright, come on, Theo," says Daphne. "Let's go, Millie's waiting."

Draco grits his teeth as his friends slip away to their seats in the back of the classroom. He's not too proud to admit to himself that Theo has helped him immeasurably all these weeks. He gathers himself, as he must when Theo or Greg aren't there to guide him. He musn't give in to the pain, _musn't_. He plants his feet, grips the table, and uses the strength in his legs, in his fingers to brace against those surfaces and pull his shoulders back.

Granger, beside him, makes a sound—probably of amusement. "You alright, Malfoy?"

 _What do you think_ , he wants to say. But speaking is too much effort. He presses his lips together and manages to fix his eyes on a high point on the board behind Vector. This, and his grip on the table, keep him upright.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Some time later, he blinks and feels more himself. He finds that his forehead is damp with sweat, and when he releases the table's edge, his fingers sore and white from exertion, his breath comes in short gasps. At least, as often happens, his fear has subsided with the pain. He is wiped out, blank. 

"Welcome back," says Granger, dryly. There's a low muttering in the room; they've broken out into pairs to practice. "That was a bad one, wasn't it? Normally it's earlier, and lasts only half a period."

"You—how long have I—"

"Anyways, I'd tell you to go to the Hospital Wing, but you'll probably say you can't for some reason or other. It's been nice, though, not having you lean across the desk as if all the space is yours, the way you've been doing, just so you can read off my notes while pretending you're not."

Draco grits his teeth. To emerge from a shock, only to deal with this. He grips his wand, glancing around, and only now he realizes that Granger's conjured two arithmancical floats: one for her, and one for him.

"Thanks," he mutters, as much to buy time as anything else. He eyes the floating balls of energy, which are generally keyed to numbers, and tries to figure out which numbers they're tied to. Then he eyes his bookbag on the ground, the unravelled and empty scroll on his desk.

"So tell me something," says Granger. "You've perfectly good marks in Arithmancy. I've seen the rankings before. It's me, Nott, then you. So why're you copying off me?"

"You—" He breaks off, takes a large breath to steady himself. He's still breathing heavily. "You planned this. You've been watching me and sitting next to me in Arithmancy so you can get at me while I'm weak and—"

"—and question you? Yeah, genius plan. Never made a better one, in fact."

Now Draco sees that the floats before him are both keyed to the number nine, the highest stable float order which can be conjured without prior preparation. Trust Granger to manage it. He begins coaxing the float before him to start spinning counterclockwise, the way the other students are doing. Granger's float is already spinning, and she openly watches him.

"All right," he says. "Fine. You're right, and you know it. I'm having shocks. There, rub it in my face. I don't care. I'll never care! I'm still a pure-blood—you'll never be one!"

"Right," says Granger. "You're having… the shocks. Right."

"Yeah," he says savagely. " _Shocks—_ like a bloody Muggle who can't even magic away drunkenness."

"Oh— _shocks_!" breathes Granger, as if this makes everything clear. "But—" Abruptly, she stops speaking and points her wand at the floats, which blink out of existence. "You didn't answer my question. Why're you copying off me?"

Draco has to replay their conversation before he realizes what she's asking. "Oh, that," he says.

"Yes— _oh, that._ "

"I haven't been." That much is true, at least. He couldn't have copied her notes: they're a fucking mess, and even if they weren't, what would be the use? He wouldn't be able to understand them, anyway.

"Right," she says. "Well, then. Glad that's resolved."

He conjures a nine-float instead of answering her, and remains resolutely silent as they both resume their practice. There's something soothing in watching the floats collect strength as they spin. He imagines his thoughts and emotions seeping out of his nostrils, his ears, and being sucked away into the spinning ball of light before him. He's not angry, just on edge. Because Granger—when she talks to you, you can feel her mind at work behind the words. She's dangerous, that's what she is.

 

* * *

 

 

But a little while later, he's thinking: why not ask her about her Arithmancy notes? She knows about the Room of Hidden Things, and she hasn't told. She even knows about his current condition. And she hasn't told anyone that either.

"Nice," he says, when she gets her float to burst nine smaller parts. "Definitely a seventh-year maneuver." A casual comment, something complimentary—that's always a good way to start.

Granger's face snaps towards him. "What do you want now?"

"That's nice," he repeats. "Nine's the hardest number."

She scowls. "I know that."

"I've been… looking at your notes, not copying them," he says, an offering.

Snorting, she says, "I noticed."

"They've got…well… look, it's not the Arithmancy that interests me."

"I—" She blinks. "You mean the doodles?"

It's true that sometimes Granger draws. Faces, trees, strangely angular depictions of Hogwarts. Frozen sketching. It's a stupid, Muggle hobby. He catches his face screwing up, so he quickly schools his face. "No," he says hastily. He points his wand at his scroll, and symbols sprinkle out from his memory onto the paper, scattering about. "These."

Granger's brow clears, and suddenly she is laughing—a clear and tinkling sound. But though she sounds amused, the laughter isn't nice. "You mean—maths? That's what you've been looking at?"

"Maths."

"Yes, maths." She points her wand at the symbols and they rearrange themselves, with lowercase letters in both English and Greek. "Like this, right?"

Draco nods. 

Her eyes flicker across his person. Something sinister crosses her face. "It won't help you, Malfoy."

"I'm not—"

"Whatever it is that you're trying to do—whatever it is—maths won't help you. Some of the very best Muggle-born wizards wasted entire careers trying to use maths to further Arithmancy. But magic's not like that. It doesn't work like that."

"What do Muggle-borns know of magic?" he says before he can stop himself. "Magic's not—"

Granger slams a hand down on the table. "Magic's not—what?"

The action is so unexpected, he coughs. "It's not—well—"

"What, Malfoy! What! It's not logical? Not sensible? Not mathematical? You think I don't know that! Ever since first year I've known it!" She crumples up her notes and shove them into her bag. "Thank god this class is almost over. I hate this. Fuck, I hate everything."

"Look, Granger," he says, "I don't know why you're acting like this but—"

"Fuck you," she says, very quietly. "Don't use that tone, all that male condescension. God, I hate boys. It's because of you I woke up with a month missing. Gone! Poof! Then you violate my mind, my privacy, my thoughts. And now I can't even sleep. Dreams every night, dreams at every corner—and still—memories disappearing, words I don't know, thoughts leaking from my brain, things I can't say. So fuck this, fuck magic, fuck you. Fuck." Standing, she says, loudly, clearly, "Professor, may I be excused? I'd like to go to the Hospital Wing."

"Go," says Professor Vector. Her eyes scan over the two of them, and Draco suddenly recollects the one time he ran into Septima Vector without her glasses. How sharp her gaze was without the dullling effect of the lenses. She says: "Everything in order?"

"Yes," says Granger. She digs around in her bag as if looking for something, makes an aggrieved noise, and whirls away.

Draco stares at the scroll in front of him, the odd symbols Granger's left him to ponder and the odd words she said spinning in his head. _Fuck this, fuck magic, fuck you. Fuck_. This, from Granger. And her other accusations, too—

"Draco!" someone is saying. "Draco, for Circe's sake!"

He snaps out of his thoughts, snatches the scroll up, and shoves it in a pocket. 

Then he glances up into a head of dense, black hair. Sharp, black eyes.

"Great, and now you and Granger are passing messages. Excellent, just excellent," says Theo. "Now just think what Blaise will say when he hears about this."

 

* * *

 

 

Retreat's cowardly, it always has been. Blaise is down in the Great Hall even now, recounting yet again the _tale._ What's the big deal, Draco wants to know. A little spat with a Gryffindor and no one even knows what happened. And yet, to hear Blaise tell it, Granger really showed him up. He's taken advantage of Draco's absence in the common room and at meals to put his own spin on it, despite not having been there to witness the scene himself. Typical Blaise, Blaise who goes to meals even though he never eats in company. Something about Blaise's persistence lingers in Draco's mind—it's not normal. But what does he know—he's not been keeping up with the politics for months now.

And besides, what's he to do? The weekend, Monday, and today have all flown by. In a few hours he'll see the Dark Lord, and still he has nothing to report. 

So here he is, sitting in the Room of Hidden Things. He's ordered Gregory to prowl the seven floor corridor, and he's striving to strike Pansy's face from his mind, and Tracey's, and Vince's. Anyone who is even this moment laughing along sympathetically to Blaise's embellishments.

One person who probably isn't laughing: Granger. Probably if she'd just lift her nose out of a book or some essay of Potter's she's editing—that is, writing—for him, she'd see Blaise holding court from across the Great Hall. But as Blaise hardly ever pantomimes, she'd not recognize it. She'd just stare at him without understanding, the way, by her telling, she's stared at magic since her first year without understanding it. What does a Muggle-born know of magic anyway? Magic _does_ makes sense. It always has. It makes _intuitive_ sense. Draco's never seen a spell that didn't work the way he expected it to. If Granger can't predict magic, that's her own damn fault. Proof of what she is: a Mudblood.

And hence her affinity for _maths_. Half a period spent talking to Granger and still he doesn't know what that is. Draco stares at the crumpled paper he's made an effort to smooth out. And she says _magic_ doesn't make sense!

But: if _maths_ is something the Muggles developed, it must fit with magic. And he ought to understand it: magic improves everything Muggles do. Take trains. That was a Muggle thing, wasn't it? But Muggle trains, to hear Fudge talk about it, aren't like the Hogwarts Express, which has never failed. _A train crash_ , Fudge had said that time at the Quidditch World Cup while they were in the skybox: that's what happens with Muggles make.

Magic must improve _maths_. That's what he needs it, what he wants, and he knows it to be true. Yes—

Draco takes a deep breath, feeling suddenly nauseous. The paper in his left hand is warm. With his right hand, he makes a fist, stuffs it in his mouth, and bites down hard. He doesn't have time for another episode. He's to report to Snape in a few hours. Curling into a ball, he prepares for the pain—but after a few seconds his head stops spinning, and there's no pain at all. No, there's an only odd blueish tinge on everything…

The symbols on the scroll in his hand are glowing.

 _Oh_. Yes, he'd known it, hadn't he? _Maths_ is just another thing magic does improve, after all. Draco stands up, gets to work. _Work_ , that glorious thing he can finally do, now that he knows what he has to do.

 

* * *

 

 

At three minutes past midnight, he's skipping down the last flight of stairs, still elated. _Watch me_ , he thinks. _Just watch me, Snape._

But nobody comes to answer the door. Draco tests the knob, and is surprised when it turns and he's suddenly stepping into Snape’s office. The lights are out. 

With a start, Draco sees that his professor is standing right before him in the darkness, his hooked nose just catching the light. 

“You're late," says Snape.

“Only by three minutes."

“No excuses. Those robes will do, I suppose. Your mask?”

But a Death Eater mask is thrust into hand before Draco can answer, and his arm is gripped, and then he's being led out the door, in the direction of the kitchens. He has just enough presence of mind to stuff the mask into his robe pocket. Past the painting with a pear Snape drags him—straight into a hallway Draco knows. It ends in a small glass observatory, surrounded on most sides by the lake. But Snape stops halfway down the corridor and draws his wand, tapping a series of stones in a giant 'S' shape against the wall.

The stones shift haltingly, grinding with a sandy sound against each other, and reveal a dark passageway. When the stones seal shut behind him, Draco says, "Where are we? Where does this lead?"

A flick of Snape's wand, and ghostly lights form, more grey smoke than light at all. One by one, they arrange themselves, lighting a dark, curving path filled with an unnatural fog.

“Don't ask unnecessary questions," say Snape, setting off. His pace is brisk.

Snape's brusque manner is unsettling—but there's no choice. There never has been any. Snape, who can't be trusted; Snape, who must be trusted—they are one and the same. After a long while, the passageway twists suddenly, ending in another stone wall. This time, the 'S' pattern sends the wall's stones shuffling into a narrow, winding staircase with a low ceiling. Snape gestures. _You first_.

Very well. Draco ducks into the staircase, and in his ear, just as he passes his professor, Snape says, "No questions. And watch your steps. We are below a shop in Hogsmeade."

The wall closes up behind them with a grinding noise, and it is suddenly dimmer. In silence, they crawl up the steps, heads tucked into their chins, shoulders hunched forward, that they might avoid nasty scratches on their scalps. Quite suddenly, though, the ceiling gives way, and Draco finds himself in Madame Puddiffoot's men's room.

Snape strides forward, opens a small, high window and—Draco can't believe his eyes—melts into a black smoke, his person reforming on the other side. Draco raises his own wand for Apparition, but Snape stops him with a wave. "Your mask," he says. "And there's an Anti-Disapparition jinx."

So Draco presses his mask to his face, clambers ungracefully onto the windowsill, and, sticking his legs through, jumps out. Before he's regained his balance, Snape, who's been putting illusory charms on the open window to make it appear shut, grabs Draco's sleeve, and they are gone.

 

* * *

 

 

They are spat out from Snape's Apparition before the gates. The Manor looms before them, and Draco's heart catches in his chest. How he loves this place, especially by moonlight. The peacocks are all asleep, and the crickets too, so the only sound is the shuffle of their feet against the gravel. The cool air, sweet with honeysuckle and brambles, carries a gentle breeze.

When they near the Manor, the oak doors swing open, and Wormtail, his face visible by moonlight, stands for a second in the center of the doorway, a hunched shape. Then they are upon him, and he is bowing obsequiously. The look on the man's face makes Draco wonder what, exactly, lies between him and Snape.

They're late enough to have missed the general meeting, but a good many Death Eaters remain, lingering in the hallways and sitting rooms. A few—newer recruits, no doubt—wear masks. Draco is thankful for his own: he is not known yet, and there are always traitors, even amongst Death Eaters. Others—Calum Selwyn, Walden Macnair—already in the know, and already known, they've ensconced themselves in the large, comfortable armchairs, lounging unmasked and chatting idly. They nod at Draco as he is led past them into the library, and soon their voices are silenced as the library door clicks shut behind Snape and Draco.

A disembodied voice, thin and nasal, floats out from a stiff leather chair before the fire: "Severus, you have brought him, I see."

Snape bows. "My lord."

The chair swivels around without a sound, as if it were floating on air.

"If he isn't your exact image, Lucius," says the Dark Lord, and looking up, Draco sees his father standing near the other library entrance. His father! But a casual gesture of the bony hand before him, a hand which is elegantly arranged around that long wand, recalls Draco to the moment. A chair forms from nothing in an instant before his eyes. Draco blinks. The Dark Lord's power never ceases to amaze.

"Severus tells me you've been working very, very hard."

Suppressing the nervous urge to clear his throat, Draco bows and says, "Yes, I have… my lord." He strives to school his thoughts, empty his face and mind.

Soft laughter oozes out of the armchair, barely audible above the cackling of the fire. "Relax, Draco, relax." The Dark Lord looks over Draco, red eyes glittering, and gives a high, piercing laugh. "Why, Lucius, I'd observed it before—but you were not here, of course! So I repeat: how accomplished he is! Bellatrix, tell me now, is this your work?"

But before Aunt Bella can answer, the Dark Lord just as suddenly stops laughing. He says, "Of course, his Occlumentic powers could be your work, too, _dear_ Lucius. Your loyalty has not always been constant, and no doubt the boy shares your sentiments…"

Draco swallows, trying to hide his fear, then thinks better of it. What use to hide his cowardice, which must be so obvious? Fear alone does not failure make.

"Still, he may yet redeem your family." The Dark Lord sounds amused again. "Away, all of you. I wish to talk to the boy alone."

Snape makes a sudden gesture from behind Draco, but is waved off. 

“I said, alone, Severus.”

Snape gives Draco an inscrutable look, but he strides away. Draco slides his eyes off Snape to his father, who gives him a tight nod before retreating as well.

Dropping his eyes to the floor, Draco walks forward to the seat which is clearly meant for him, but something, a sixth sense perhaps, calls his attention. His mother stands right at the far entrance, and when their eyes meet, she straightens just a tad more, though she always has impeccable posture, and tilts her chin up, as she's done for years when she's caught his eye from across the room at parties they attended. _You_ are a _Malfoy._

Draco bows again, then sits, back rigidly straight, and says, "My lord, I—" 

That graceful and skeletal hand is held up, stopping Draco's words. The far door clicks shut.

"Now we are alone," says the Dark Lord, dropping his hand and stroking the large, scaly head of Nagini, who is curled in his lap.

"I have—I am still in the process of testing, but I feel sure that I have repaired the connection between cabinets," says Draco.

That elegant, bony hand floats up, opens expressively, then settles gracefully on the armrest. "Very good, Draco! Very good."

Draco shifts uncomfortably, saying nothing.

"Severus has helped you?"

"No!" The word falls out before Draco can control it.

The Dark Lord smiles, leaning forward. Nagini slithers off his lap and away from the fire, to a dark shadow where not even the fire glints on her scales. "No?"

"I—Professor Snape has been asking, of course."

"My dear, dear boy, you are equals in my eyes, you know that? Call him Severus."

"Well, Severus"—Draco tastes the name on his lips, the hissing quality of it—"has been offering to assist—"

"But you don't trust him, do you? You suspect his loyalty?"

"Yes—no!—I mean only that, well—" Draco takes a deep breath. _Focus_. Yes, empty the mind, the soul, the heart. "This is my task, my lord. It was given to me."

"And you are too proud to admit where you are outmatched, hmm?"

"No, I—only, I wished to try, and indeed I have succeeded. If I had not met with success…"

"Ah, Draco. How very like your father you are." The Dark Lord smiles, and there is a certain deadly malice contained in the curve of those bloodless lips. "Diplomacy becomes you."

Draco dips his head down. It's the only safe thing to do.

"A good thing, too. Do you realize _you_ have eyes where I can send no one else, at the moment? You are perceptive, Draco. I see that. It's why I assigned you your task. Oh, I was angry with your father. But you see, truly, there is nobody else I could entrust with the task."

Shocked, Draco looks up. _And Snape?_ —that's what he wants to ask. 

But it's a mistake; the Dark Lord is waiting, and as Draco's eyes meet his, there is a heavy shove at his mind. He resists, barely, before giving up. He's never felt power like this. Far too easily, Draco feels his mind cave. The relevant memories zoom to the forefront of his mind: Snape hooded in darkness; Snape, only a light upon his hook nose, his face in shadows, demanding his progress in his office; Snape dragging him out of Slughorn's party, pushing him against a wall, demanding that Draco report to him.

Then the force in his mind is suddenly gone. Chilled by the sudden withdrawal, Draco hunches over, coughing. 

“So what you say is true. Good, very good. I don't tolerate lies, Draco.”

"Of course not, my lord," he says.

“Bella is very talented, of course," says the Dark Lord, "but a few weeks of her training could never have protected you. Still … tell me, Draco. Why did you agree to kill Dumbledore?”

“I desire nothing more than to serve you, my—"

The Dark Lord waves a dismissive hand. “You're afraid, and unwilling. I know that much. I could pull the true reasons from your mind in an instant. I've never liked your father, Draco. Even when I believed he was capable of carrying out tasks, there was a certain, well, disingenuousness, shall we say? I have, of course, since learned better. His silver tongue rarely tells truth, isn't that so?” 

“My lord, my father only ever wished—"

“Your father thought," the Dark Lord says, "that _he_ would find _glory_ by my side."

Draco snaps up; this is a challenge. “So do I,” he says emphatically, with all the fervour that he can summon, fervour that is suddenly within him. Confidence flows into him. He pours conviction into his words, words he doesn't even know were within him until he began to spout them. _I am a Malfoy_ , he thinks. 

"I am a pure-blood," Draco says, "born of the Malfoy family. You, my lord, are the only wizard who possesses the power necessary to re-establish the old ways—the right way. You are the only wizard who can achieve it. I truly believe that."

The Dark Lord's face has that fierce, approving expression on it again. But he looks hungry, too, as if he wishes to devour the words Draco is saying.

"My father is not wrong," Draco continues, "not wrong at all. For there _is_ glory to be had by your side. My uncle Rodolphus—he feels the same. And Calum Macnair. Xavier Yaxley, Antonin Dolohov, even Sna—Severus. Even Severus desires it. And why shouldn't we? That is the dream of old—we pure-bloods, returned to our glory, united under our master! My father has always—"

"Enough," orders the Dark Lord. But he does not look displeased. His eyes, sharp, rove over Draco's person before shifting to the fire. For a long time they sit there, Draco in shock at his own audacity, mulling over his words in the lengthening silence. Then the Dark Lord lifts his wand. A ghostly grid appears in the air, numbers in the corner: a calendar. 

The Dark Lord points his wand at one box, which glows. "The ninth of June. Nine is a powerful number, don't you think? Almost as powerful as seven. This is the date. Remember it, but do not speak it."

Draco rises, bows. "My lord," he says. "I endeavor to meet your every instruction."

“Oh, I know,” says the Dark Lord, laughing softly. “The future—you feel it approaching, and you’d like to be in the right place wouldn’t you, Draco? And if you weren't, well your mother and your father … would be so very disappointed. Now"—he snaps his fingers with vigor—“let us see. Yes, Rowle, I think. And Yaxley. The Carrows, Gibbon, and Avery. Send them in.”

Draco bows again.

“Oh, and Draco”—the Dark Lord rises as he says these words. It always shocks Draco, just how tall the Dark Lord is—“when you are about to make the kill, just remember: the glory _can_ be yours. You need only claim it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Now the days fly by—before he knows it, everything is ready. The ninth of June. But at the appointed time, no one spills through the cabinet's doors. School ends, he boards the Hogwarts Express, and he is fetched by Narcissa from the train station. She is thinner than ever. At the Manor, the doors swing upon, and Draco is forced to walk behind Wormtail in his own home. His house's hallways are lined with Death Eaters—Macnair, Gibbon, Yaxley, and dozens of others, masked, all of them leering. In front of the shimmering fire, the Dark Lord's thin form is barely visible, but the curse, sudden and red, hits Draco's chest and is terribly, terribly real. Twisting on the ground, needles in his neck, his elbows, he catches sight of Snape, who stands still, face impassive. His father is there too—he nods, once. _Do something_ , he wants to say, but all he can do is clutch at his left arm, which is on fire, a searing heat emanating from his Dark Mark. His chest vibrates with pain, his throat scratches, a strangled yell forcing its way through, one Draco hears as if from a distance. When his yelling stops, he realizes the curse is over. He stumbles to his feet, turns towards where his father had been standing, but his father stands no longer: he lies on the floor, Narcissa beside him, their arms and heads twisted in odd angles, and behind them is Pettigrew, suddenly tall and straight, who smiles down at Draco, cruelly. _Crucio,_ the Dark Lord cries again, and everything shakes.

Draco awakes in a sweat.

"Draco." Narcissa is sitting at the side of his bed—she's shaken him awake. “Severus has just finished. He’s waiting for you downstairs.”

Draco rubs his eyes tiredly. He'd fallen asleep in his robes. There's nothing like being in his own bed in his own room. “Do I have to go?” he says, but he sits up.

Narcissa waits while Draco presses the heated tip of his wand to the creases in his robes, smoothing them out. When he's finished, she walks forward and, rising up on her tiptoes, gives him a kiss on his forehead. Sometime in the past three months, he's finally grown taller than her.

"Your father and I…" she says quietly. "Draco—know this: we’re proud of you, so very proud.”

* * *

 

 

Proud. The word swells in his breast. He follows Snape out the Manor's front door, the word still in his head. _We're proud of you—so very proud_.

It's this which allows Snape to catch him off guard, to Petrify him the moment they've reached Hogsmeade. Draco lies flat on the ground facing upwards, looking into the cloudless sky where a large, almost-full, very yellow moon hangs. The moon drifts backwards, and a ledge comes into view—he's being levitated through the open window. A moment later, a black amorphous shapes lands softly behind him, reforming into Snape, who steals a glance behind him, seals the window, opens the stone corridor again, and sends Draco drifting downwards. 

Draco lands with a thud on the ground at the bottom of the stairs, suddenly freed of Petrification. He scrambles to his feet. "You—"

"Not another word," says Snape, quiet but deadly. "You are reckless, Draco."

"No," returns Draco. " _You_ are jealous, that's what! The Dark Lord trusts _me_ now and—"

Snape laughs, a loud, mirthless sound. "And so he instructs me to give you directions, why?"

Draco falls silent, seething.

"The nineteenth of June. You will go to the Room of Requirement; your reinforcements will come. The Death Mark you will send into the sky from the Astronomy Tower. I will direct Dumbledore to you if need be. And when he arrives, you will have your chance."

 _The ninth_ , he almost says, but the Dark Lord's orders ring is his ears: _do not speak it_. Draco is suddenly, intensely glad for the dark fog that prevents eye contact. But why—

“Any questions?”

“Yes," says Draco stubbornly. "Why didn’t you tell me about this passageway? Why can't we use—"

“You didn’t ask."

“Can't we—"

"No. Every entrance into the castle is reported to the Headmaster by the portraits in his office."

"Then Dumbledore _knows_?" Draco can hear his voice rising. "You brought me through a passageway that Dumbledore _knows?!_ "

“The Order is understaffed, and Dumbledore refuses to tell the Ministry more than he must. So he uses magical enchantments—on magical ability, you understand? You are an underage wizard—you don't count. It's only me it senses. So we pass. Now, think again, knowing that. Nineteen Death Eaters. Exiting out into a dead end in the dungeons. You think—”

But Draco has no room for anything Snape is saying save this: _nineteen_. An exact number, that, just as the nineteenth is. Draco shivers, suddenly, realising the importance of that. _Nineteen_ is a magically important number too. Perhaps it's he, Draco, who's been misinformed, lied to. He says, “Is there—really will there be nineteen Death Eaters?"

There's a glint in Snape's eyes, visible even by the low, gray-tinted light emited by floating orbs. “Layers,” says Snape, quietly. “Layers upon layers of half-truths and lies. That is what it is to work with the Dark Lord.”

"So how do you—how do you know what is—"

“You don't. Still, there are signs. Magical symbolism, history. Those, and experience. They are your only guides.” Snape sneers, and strides forward again.

And just like that Draco knows it is Snape—no, not Snape but Severus—yes, it is Severus who is misled. Magical symbolism, history, experience—yes, perhaps, but there's something else, another way to know, he thinks, wryly—a way Granger would never forget: logic.

Yes, logic. For Draco's, you see, is the earlier date.


End file.
